


From A Great Height

by littlerhymes



Category: Chronicle (2012)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Codependency, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate ending: Andrew agrees to leave Seattle with Matt. Together, they journey to Tibet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From A Great Height

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to SQ (proteinscollide) for beta-reading! All remaining errors and geography fails are my own.

> MATT: _Andrew, you're not alone up here. I'm here with you. I should have been with you all along, but I'm here now and we can stop this, right now, you and me! Andrew, we could just fly away, we can get out of here. We can be family._

 

They fly for hours. Until their skin is chilled and numb, until their aching bodies can't take it anymore, until the blood drips from their noses and into their mouths. Until Matt's sure that they're safe. 

They stumble to the ground near a darkened ranger's hut somewhere in British Columbia. Andrew's still in his hospital gown, barefoot, patches of his skin raw with burns and blood; he stands blank-eyed and shivering in the cold. Once out of city limits they'd kept low, skimming the treetops and mountainsides, for fear of the cold as well as to escape detection.

"Here." Matt takes off his jacket and drapes it around Andrew's shoulders. "Don't move. I'm going to check out the hut, okay?"

It's empty - thank god. He doesn't think he could fly any further tonight. It's easy work to force the door, the lock giving with an invisible shove. Inside it's basic: a sink, a pallet, a first aid kit, a small wood stove. It's enough. 

He motions Andrew inside. Andrew's stumbling by then, asleep on his feet; he falls on the pallet and is out like a light. 

Matt forces himself to stay awake a little while longer - long enough to clean and disinfect the worst of Andrew's wounds on his feet, arms, scalp, then rebandage them using supplies from the kit and a torn-up sheet. By the end his own eyelids are drooping, his head nodding, the adrenaline of the chase and fear long worn off now. 

Throughout Andrew never stirs, not even when Matt crawls onto the pallet behind him and pulls the single blanket over both of them, before falling into a deep sleep.

They spend three days in the hut. 

During the daylight hours, Matt gathers supplies. By foot or car, the roads twist and turn into dirt tracks, but as the crow flies - as he flies - they aren't too far from the town across the mountains. Each day he goes shopping, hoodie drawn up against the threat of recognition. Using his powers, it's not hard to spill a tray of drinks or topple over a stand of merchandise, enough to create a distraction for him to grab what he needs. 

Part of him feels bad about taking clothes off the rack, a fold-up tent from a struggling camping goods store, groceries bagged and paid for by unsuspecting shoppers, first aid supplies from mom-and-dad drugstores. But then he'll see another tv headline or newspaper front page about what happened in Seattle, the death-toll rising daily, and the fear is enough to push any regret far, far away. 

Each day when Matt leaves and returns, Andrew is curled up on the pallet, looking as though he's barely moved. He stirs enough to eat the food Matt brings back from town - canned soup warmed up over the stove, peanut butter sandwiches, oranges they peel by hand - but his eyes stay blank. He barely speaks. 

Matt checks Andrew's wounds and change his bandages each morning and night. At first Andrew moves like an old man, stiff and sore, needing Matt to help him pull his shirt off and put it back on. Bruises bloom all over his skin, brilliant at first, then slowly turning mottled and muted as the days pass. But he doesn't catch an infection, or come down with a fever, both scenarios Matt had secretly feared. His skin scabs over and starts to heal. Matt watches the colour returns to his cheeks, his lips.

At night, they fall asleep next to one another. As he lies down Matt will fit himself beside Andrew's thin body, close enough for warmth, far enough for what he assumes is politeness. But each morning he wakes up with his arm around Andrew's waist or flung over his chest, their legs tangled. He tells himself it's warmer like that, curled up together; and besides, Andrew doesn't seem to mind. 

Andrew doesn't seem to notice much at all.

On the fourth morning, just as Matt is starting to get really antsy about the possibility of being found, Andrew finally says something about the growing stack of supplies by the door. "Why do - where are we going with all of that?" Andrew says, indicating the tent, the fleece-lined jackets, the hiking boots. 

"Where do you _think_ we're going? I thought you were the smart one," Matt says. He smiles, for the first time in days. "Like you always said, man. Tibet." 

*

It's not until they reach Siberia that Matt realises _this is it_. 

Throughout Canada and Alaska, he'd been subconsciously holding on to the idea that maybe they might still go home, that everything could be smoothed over somehow. But crossing the invisible border that divides the US from Russia somehow makes it real in a way that feels terribly final. There's no turning back from here. They're never going home. He catches himself looking backwards at the Alaskan coastline, swallowing down a lump in his throat at the thought of his mom, dad, Casey. He never even had a chance to say goodbye.

Andrew never looks back.

The weather stays clear for the crossing over the Bering Strait and into Siberia. At this time of year it's temperate enough to camp outdoors, as they do most nights. They don't have a set course in mind - Matt googled it before they crossed the strait and thinks vaguely of heading towards Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky or Magadan - so they decide to follow the coast, staying near port towns if they can find them. They'll be screwed if they ever get asked for their papers but Matt doesn't want them to end up lost and starving to death on the tundra either. 

They're in a tiny fishing village, sleeping in a warehouse stinking of brine and machine oil, when the storm rolls in from the sea. As usual they sleep side by side, their sleeping bags zipped together so they can share their warmth, Andrew's back against Matt's chest. 

Sometime in the night Matt is woken not by a clap of thunder, but by Andrew kicking against him. "Hey, buddy. You okay?" Matt says, still muzzy. But Andrew's eyes are still closed. 

Lightning strikes, somewhere very close. Less than a heartbeat later there's the roar of thunder, loud and deep enough to shake the tin roof and jar Matt's teeth. 

Andrew still doesn't wake but it's as though the thunder sets something off inside him. He moans, limbs spasming, head jerking back and just catching the underside of Matt's jaw. "No," Andrew mumbles, and then louder, "No!"

Another clap of thunder, even louder this time. But Matt realises with a chill that it's not the thunder that's making the walls shake or rattling the doors in their hinges. He feels the hairs on his scalp and arms start to rise, he feels _their bodies_ start to rise up off the ground, just an inch now but -

"Andrew," Matt says, trying to shake him awake, "Andrew, you have to calm down! Andrew, jesus, you have to wake up and -"

"I'm sorry." Andrew sounds like he's crying now, eyes screwed shut. "Steve, I'm so sorry, I -" he breaks off, choking. 

Outside the storm wails and howls, rain beating down on the roof like a drumbeat. Inside, the wind swirling around them is surely too strong to be from any natural cause and _jesus fuck_ they're at least a foot off the ground now and the door hinges screech like they're starting to give.

"Come on, Andrew." Matt wraps both his arms around Andrew, hooks his ankles around Andrew's legs, trying to stop him thrashing around. "Andrew, please, stop," he says, trying to keep his voice calm even though his heart is racing. "I'm here. You're not alone."

Andrew sobs again, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. His eyes are still closed but at least he's stopped kicking, his body shaking but otherwise pliant in Matt's embrace.

"I'm here," Matt says again, mouthing the words soft against Andrew's ear, rubbing his hands up and down Andrew's arms, his chest flush against Andrew's back. If words won't do, at least he can try to reach him through skin and warmth and breath. "I'm here. I'm with you." He presses his mouth to the side of Andrew's neck, like a kiss.

The rain continues its persistent metallic drumbeat on the roof and the thunder crashes again, though at more of a distance now. Inside the warehouse, the wind ebbs and dies. Slowly, slowly, Matt lowers them both to the ground. There's no resistance from Andrew; his eyes are still shut and it's impossible for Matt to know if he's just faking it. 

But why question it? There's no point. It's over now. Matt closes his own eyes and eventually falls asleep again, arms still wrapped around Andrew. Outside the storm rages on, and in the dark hours of the shortened Siberian night it eventually passes.

*

On the Kamchatka Peninsula, they soar over the famous volcanoes, spiralling in closer and closer before finally coming to land on a mountainside thick with trees. From there they make their way by foot to the main roads heading back into town. With their backpacks and scraggly beards, they could pass for tourists returning from a hike; and for a little while, Matt can almost pretend that's true. 

Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky is a tourist town, or as close as it gets in this part of the world. It's many times smaller than Seattle, but after the days of solitude it seems bustling and hectic to both of them. Seeing Andrew visibly flinch at the honk of cars and the laughter spilling out from the doors of a bar, Matt reaches out and gives the back of Andrew's neck a quick rub. 

"You okay?" he says.

Andrew looks down, the tips of his ears going red, his hair hiding his eyes. "Yeah. Let's just find a place, okay?"

There's only a few hotels; they go to the cheapest-looking one they can find. The staff at the front desk don't speak much English, but they understand the roll of bills Matt brings out of his pocket - filched from pockets all over town - and hand over the keys to a room without asking any questions.

It's late afternoon by then. Matt showers first and while Andrew's taking his turn, he starts a load of laundry in the hotel basement before heading out to a local deli and supermarket. Thinking of dinner, he buys piroshki, stuffed with mince and mushrooms, and a few bottles of beer; and stocks up on cans and dried food to replace what they've used since Alaska. Waiting in the painfully slow queue for the checkout, he hears the young couple behind him bickering softly, the tone familiar even if the words are not. Ahead of him an older woman struggles with her shopping cart - she flashes him a grateful smile when he gives her a hand putting her groceries on the conveyer belt. It all seems so pointlessly, blissfully ordinary that for a moment it's easy to slip into the illusion that he's just another American backpacker, just one of the crowd, here to see the sights and have a good time.

The illusion breaks when he gets back to the hotel. The tv's on but Andrew is pacing the narrow strip of carpet by the window. "Where were you?" he snaps out as soon as Matt closes the door behind him. He runs his fingers through his wet hair, hand trembling. "I thought - maybe you'd been -"

"Easy, easy," Matt says, warily setting the bags down on the ground. "I was just getting us some food. Nothing happened. I didn't get recognised, no one stopped me."

Andrew flings himself on the bed. ""Fine," he snaps. "Fine, just…" He scowls and shrugs, the sentence tailing off. Matt opens a bottle of beer and hands it over like a peace offering; Andrew accepts it gracelessly, and no more is said about it.

Maybe, Matt realises later, as they're eating their piroshki while watching some kind of Russian soap opera, it was less about being caught and more that Andrew was scared about being left behind. Thinking he'd been abandoned - that Matt had abandoned him. I would never, he wants to say. I can't.

He thinks of that again when they're both in their separate beds and the lights are turned out. He hears Andrew tossing and turning, neither of them able to rest despite the relative luxury of having an actual mattress all to themselves. After what feels like ages, but must only be a few minutes, Matt says into the darkness, clearing his throat a little, "I can't sleep like this. Is it okay if...?"

He doesn't need to say anything more because Andrew has read his mind, is already crawling into the narrow bed beside him, fitting himself under Matt's arm as though he belongs there. Sleep comes easier after that.

*

Matt's plan had been to follow the chain of islands south of Kamchatka down to Japan, and then head west through South Korea and China. He'd always wanted to see Tokyo - having grown up on dubbed anime and late night screenings of Akira - and after that maybe they could pass through Seoul and Shanghai, both of which seem like cool cities to visit. 

But seeing the effect that even a smaller city has on Andrew, he changes his mind. Cities aren't safe for them; and just as importantly, he thinks with a creeping sense of dread, _they_ aren't safe for cities. He can pretend otherwise for a few minutes here or there, but they're not taking a year off before college and they're not here on vacation to see the sights. They're running away as much as they're going forward, and behind them is a city full of wreckage, lives lost, and their dead best friend. 

They still haven't talked about what happened in Seattle or whether it could happen again. But Matt thinks about it - thinks about _Steve_ \- every day, and judging from Andrew's nightmares, so does he. Every few nights, Andrew gets the shakes and it's up to Matt to calm him down the best way he knows how.

He knows now that Andrew will settle down if he's held, if Matt runs his hands along his wrists and arms and sides, if Matt pulls his shirt up and rests his hand just there, at the bottom of Andrew's ribcage. That Andrew will stop kicking if he pushes his knee between Andrew's legs or throws his leg across Andrew's thighs. And when he puts his mouth on the back of Andrew's neck, against his ear, his throat, Andrew will make soft, wordless noises, the fight going out of him, going soft and pliant in his arms. 

Yeah. He knows how to calm Andrew down alright. 

Except that these past few nights, he's the one that's been left keyed up and tense instead.

He tells himself he's doing it for Andrew, that it's only about Andrew, and all this skin on skin is to keep him sane, safe, calm. 

Sometimes he just lies there, thankful Andrew's asleep, and suffers quietly. 

Sometimes he slips away into the night, or the next room if they're lucky enough to be beneath a roof, and guiltily jerks off. Each time trying to think of nothing and nobody, and failing entirely. 

*

Later that night in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Andrew has another nightmare. Matt holds him through it, past the thrashing and the sobbing, until the glass stops rattling in the windowpanes and furniture stops shaking.

This time, however, instead of sleeping it off as he usually does, Andrew lies restless beside him. He tosses and turns, and inadvertently pushes back against Matt's groin, his dick. At the contact Matt swallows hard, hearing his own breath coming out heavy, everything in his body aching for more. 

"Matt, are you - is that - " Andrew says, sleepy and hoarse, and Matt feels himself flushing bright red, all over, completely mortified. There's no way his hard-on can be mistaken for anything but what it is.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and lets go of Andrew, shifting his body back and away as far as the narrow bed allows. "It's nothing, I - "

He breaks off with a gasp when Andrew turns over and reaches out, pulling their bodies flush together again, and slips his hand inside Matt's boxers. 

"Andrew, no, no, you don't have to," Matt says, desperately. But the touch of Andrew's hand, dry and inexpert though it is, is exactly what he needs in that moment and his body just refuses to shove Andrew away. "You don't have to," he says again, the protest sounding weak to even his own ears.

"But I want to," Andrew says, and he pauses for a moment to lick the palm of his hand; Matt groans as he wraps it around his dick again, so much slicker and hotter than before. "I want to, Matt," he whispers again, later, when Matt's close, "you've done so much for me and I -"

He comes into Andrew's fist then so he loses the rest of it, Andrew's thanks or gratitude or whatever, in the white heat of the moment. 

When he has his breath again, Matt rolls over, tugging at Andrew's briefs. "Your turn," he says. Andrew pulls them down with shaky hands, his breath as ragged as Matt's was a few moments ago.

Matt starts with his hand, then thinks _why not?_ and puts his mouth to use instead. He's never gone down on a guy before - he doesn't think he does the best job ever and he doesn't swallow, pulling off in time to finish Andrew with his hand, but it's not so bad. 

Andrew doesn't last long, anyway, and as he clumsily swipes them both a little cleaner with the corner of a sheet. "Sorry," he says as he crawls back up the bed. 

"What for?" Andrew says, yawning. 

_Sorry you had to settle for this_ , he thinks. This should have been fun, with someone you actually wanted, not just a thing you did to say thanks, to fill a need. He thinks all that but instead of saying anything he leans down to kiss Andrew sweet and soft, the way Andrew should have been kissed if Matt had just done this right. It's too late now - Matt can't give Andrew the first time he should have had. But at least he can give him this one kiss. 

Andrew kisses him back sleepily and falls asleep soon after, the usually-tense lines of his body gone all slack and relaxed.

Matt lies awake for a few minutes longer, watching Andrew sleep in the streetlight seeping in from the thin hotel curtains, and drifts off trying to ignore the whispering, persistent part of himself that wants this to happen again. 

*

The next morning there's a couple of moments when they catch one another's eyes and then look away too quickly, but that's all. Matt doesn't want to talk about it, and he's relieved that Andrew doesn't either.

Awkward or not, they both get over it when he spreads out the map - stolen from a backpacker - and shows Andrew the new route he's planned out for them, avoiding Japan and South Korea. 

Up till now Andrew has been distant, passively following Matt's lead. This morning he seems sharper, actually engaged, identifying risks and planning ahead for things that Matt has never even considered. "No," he says instantly to the spot where Matt suggests they make the border crossing from Russia to China. "Way too close to North Korea. It's going to be under surveillance all the time, air as well as sea."

Instead he traces a path that takes them further inland, over uninhabited mountains thick with forest, impassable by foot and therefore less likely to be under patrol. Andrew's path swings close to the Mongolian plateau and then heads southwards through the inner and western provinces of China. Soon Andrew's breaking down distances, approximate flight speeds, thinking ahead to how much they'll have to bring with them in supplies, places where they might safely stop and restock. 

"You've planned this out before," Matt blurts out, midway through Andrew wondering if they'll be able to get an English-language GPS device before they leave the city. He becomes certain it's true as he says it. Even a genius like Andrew can't figure out this much from just looking at a map. "You have, haven't you?"

The edges of the map crinkle under Andrew's hands. "Yeah," he says slowly. "I have. When I thought it was going to be the three of us, you know? After graduation, like we said."

"Yeah," Matt says. He looks away. Maybe one day remembering Steve and the good thing they'd all shared for a few short months won't hurt so much anymore. Yeah, well.

*

A couple of days later, they cross the border into China. They make the journey under cover of darkness to be safe and stop to rest only when they're a safe distance from the border. By then the sun is well up. 

They choose a place near the tree line, high up by a shallow, swift-moving stream. The water is clear as glass and icy-cold, but chances to bathe in an actual body of water have been far and few between so they both end up stripping and washing themselves off. 

It's nothing they haven't done before, it's nothing Mat hasn't seen before, but he catches himself watching Andrew sideways nonetheless - looking by light of day on what he's now also touched, tasted. He looks away and splashes cold water all over himself, till his skin is goosebumped and his teeth are chattering; he's glad the water's glacial.

Afterwards they spread their towels on the riverbank and lie naked, sunning themselves dry. Matt is starting to drowse off, lulled by the warmth and the long night, when Andrew sits up beside him.

"Hey, Matt," Andrew says. 

"What's up?" Matt says lazily, shading his eyes against the light with his forearm. Thinking it's going to be something about the journey or their destination. It's a shock when Andrew leans down, steadying himself with a hand on Matt's chest, and presses a kiss to his mouth.

After a moment Andrew pulls back. "You look surprised," he says. Matt hesitates, unsure what to say, and Andrew's smile fades. "You are surprised," he says, and his expression darkens. "How is that even possible?"

"Well, I thought," Matt says lamely. He sits up so they're at eye level. "I didn't know."

"I asked you," Andrew says. "I asked you, _months_ ago, if you liked me."

He's about to flat out deny this ever happened, when he remembers - _do you like me?_ The question asked with that odd, focused intent that at the time he'd read just as Andrew's typical awkwardness. Oh. 

"I'm an idiot," he says, torn between upset and elation, and the cloud over Andrew's face lifts. 

"Yeah, you are," he agrees.

"So do I get a second shot at answering that?" he says. It's Matt who leans in this time, wrapping his arm around Andrew's waist as he goes in for the kiss.

*

They cross the border into Tibet as they've crossed all the ones before it - at night, in darkness, in secret. Their bodies rise easily on the wind above the mountains, lifting them up and over and on to the very roof of the world.

For the most part, traveling in China has been uneventful. They keep to themselves as much as possible, passing as tourists when they have to. Out in the more isolated regions, Western tourists are a novelty and there are a few occasions when they attract unwelcome attention (Matt quietly smudging dust into cellphone cameras, sending cameras flying with sudden gusts of wind), but there is no real trouble until they reach Tibet itself.

Lhasa was never an option. It's too scrutinised, under constant patrol. Outside the city, in the valleys and hills, they'd assumed it would be safer. Instead, on the very next evening as they're on their way back to their farmhouse lodgings near one of the sacred lakes, they almost come undone.

Matt is first to spot the soldiers, heading down the one main street of the village with visible intent. He grabs Andrew's arm, indicating ahead with a jerk of his chin to the squad of stone-faced soldiers with semi-automatic rifles cradled in the crooks of their elbows. They're stopping everyone they see, locals and tourists alike, demanding identification, passports, visas. 

Matt wraps his arm around Andrew's shoulders and turns them both around, intending to hustle them away down the other end of the street. Except that way is blocked too, by a wide-bodied military truck spanning the width of the road and approaching at a slow rumble.

"Shit," Matt says under his breath, "shit, shit, shit." 

Then he looks at Andrew and his stomach just drops. Andrew's gone pale, his eyes glassy. The look on his face is awful, and underneath Matt's arm and pressed against his side, he can feel Andrew's whole body starting to tense, a bow string pulled taut.

Matt thinks fast. With a quick clench of his hand, he targets a cluster of lights and powerlines across the street, behind the group of soldiers, and _pulls_. The powerlines spark and flare, loud as firecrackers, all heads turning as everything shorts out and the street is plunged into darkness, everyone shouting at once. 

In that moment when it all goes dark, Matt grabs Andrew and hisses into his ear, "Up." They both leap, fast as thought.

They come down some miles distant, close to the farmhouse where they're boarding with a family of five. As soon as they touch earth, Andrew staggers and nearly falls to the ground, his knees drawn up to his chest, breathing hard. Matt sits beside him and rubs his back and arms, saying, "We're okay. We made it. No one even saw us."

"I was this close, Matt," Andrew says unsteadily. He looks up, looking scared, looking so pale that Matt's scared he's going to puke. "I was _this close_ to doing it again. I nearly lost it. Do you hear me? I could have - I nearly - " he leans down again, head between his knees, and draws in choked breaths.

"But you didn't," Matt insists, holding him closer, rubbing circles on his back. "You _didn't_."

It's a long time before Andrew is good to go back to the farm, and even then he refuses to go to bed. "I'll have bad dreams if I sleep tonight," he says flatly, and it's hard to argue with that, "so I just won't sleep." 

Yawning and muzzy-headed, Matt gives up trying to change Andrew's mind. He settles down to sleep himself, head in Andrew's lap. He closes his eyes as Andrew cards his hair through his fingers, the gesture soothing to them both. 

"We're going to get through this," Matt says sleepily. "You know that, right?"

Andrew is silent for a long time. "But how do you know?" he says, minutes later, probably when he thinks Matt is asleep. "How can you possibly be so sure?"

_Because you have me_ , Matt thinks as he's just on the edge of wakefulness, too tired to open his eyes or reply out loud. _Because I'm here, and I won't let it happen any other way._

The next day they pack up and leave, heading further up and further in. They fly beyond Lhasa, beyond the sacred lakes, to places high on the plateau where the soldiers rarely venture.

*

A few weeks later, as summer begins to fade into autumn, they're in the Ngari prefecture. 

In a tiny hamlet far from the major roads and historic temples, they rent a room and board from a goat farmer in exchange for cash and labour. The farmer doesn't talk to them much, though his daughter Tseten speaks good English and chats to them about baseball; sometimes, they hear her rising in the middle of the night to watch games via satellite. 

In the mornings while Tseten is at school, they help with chores around the farm, but their afternoons are free so they spend a lot of time on their own. Head in the right direction and they don't have to see another human face for hours. They'll strike out from the farm, walking at first, and then taking to the skies. 

Up here, the air is crisp and cold, and the view so clear that it goes on forever to the very curve of the earth. Here, at the roof of the world, where all they can see is sky and mountains and water, it doesn't seem possible to be more alone. 

The hours pass very quickly. All too soon they'll reluctantly descend and head back to the farm in time for dinner, every footfall feeling heavy as concrete after the weightlessness of flight. 

One evening they return to find what seems like half the village gathered at the farm, faces serious and voices raised. They approach warily, only to find they're ignored by most - this isn't about them. As everyone starts moving off, looking grim and purposeful, Tseten sees them and quickly explains there's a child missing from their neighbour's house, a little boy called Tashi. Then she hurries off too.

They look at one another. "Well?" Andrew says, frowning slightly. 

"Come on," Matt says, walking backwards and beckoning Andrew with him. They turn towards the direction they came from, and as soon as they're out of sight, they fly.

They find Tashi some miles distant in the next valley over, spotting him from above by his puffy, bright red jacket. Next to him is a paper kite, the string curled loosely around his hand - they later find out he'd let it go and chased after it when it flew away, only to lose his way home. All tired out, the kid barely stirs when Andrew scoops him up off the ground. 

"Do you think we can just put him down somewhere they'll find him?" Matt says. "The less attention there is on us, the better. He probably won't even remember seeing us."

Andrew looks down at the sleeping kid in his arms, his expression unreadable. "Yeah," he says at last. "Let's do that."

The sky is completely dark by the time they set a sleepy Tashi and the kite down under a tree in the path of one of the search parties. They watch from above, hovering until he's discovered with many thankful exclamations and scoldings. 

Later, when they're in their room getting ready for bed, Andrew says, hesitantly, "That was good today. Finding that kid."

"Yeah," Matt says, yawning.

"Was that the kind of thing you imagined?" Andrew says. "When you wanted to be a police officer, I mean. Saving people and altruism and all that."

"Well, we didn't exactly save him. They would've found him anyway, we just sped things up a bit." He sighs. "I can't believe you're still giving me shit for saying that police thing. I mentioned it one time, _one time_."

"I'm not trying to give you shit," Andrew says, sounding indignant. He turns out the light and slides into bed beside Matt, giving Matt's side a quick, hard pinch. "Seriously. I'm asking you a serious question. Is that what you want to do? Save people?"

"I don't know," Matt says, batting his hands away. "I don't think you can just - you can't go out and be a hero just like that, you know? The world doesn't work that way. There's not gonna be, like, a Bat-signal telling you when to do something." 

He shrugs in the dark, trying to put the thoughts into words. "You just - you just look around and try to do what good you can do, and then keep doing it, every single day."

"Yeah," Andrew says slowly, and swallows. "Yeah, you know. I think I want to try that, Matt."

"Oh." Matt lets out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He reaches out for Andrew's hand again and twines their fingers together, smiling. "Cool. Okay. Then let's try."

"I'll try," Andrew says, a bit more firmly, "but you just keep doing what you're doing. You're already pretty good at this."

"Me?" Matt laughs softly, turning to muffle the sound against Andrew's shoulder. "Yeah, in case you haven't noticed, today a goat trod on my foot, _and_ I accidentally swallowed a bug. Yeah, I'm such a big damn hero."

"Whatever." Andrew brings Matt's hand up to his mouth for a kiss. "You save me every day," he says, like it's obvious, like it's no big deal, but it takes Matt's breath away. 

"Hey," he says.

"Shut up," Andrew says, sounding embarrassed, and he brings Matt's hand to his mouth again but this time to bite, nipping with his teeth for emphasis. "Just shut up. I mean it."

Matt rolls over and pins him, kissing him over and over, until eventually they fall asleep together, bodies curled towards one another like commas.

They wake at dawn to the first big snowfall of the season. Matt's up first and he's at the window when Andrew crawls out of the covers to stand beside him, yawning. They wait a while, watching the fat white flakes drift and fall.

"Maybe we should leave soon," Andrew says at last. "Go somewhere else. Someplace warmer. Somewhere with more people."

"Yeah?" Matt says. There's still a whole world out there, waiting to be seen; but if Andrew needs the time, the world can keep waiting. "You sure? 'cause we can stay here a while, you know. As long as you want. As long as you need."

"Yeah. But we can't stay here forever," Andrew says. His hand squeezes Matt's. He looks out at the snow, and up to the sky. "I think we're ready."


End file.
